The Tenth Muse
by Carmilla
Summary: Written for the Ninth Doctor ficathon. A signal brings the Doctor and Rose to Ancient Rome, where they find a poet creating his masterpiece.


TITLE: The Tenth Muse

AUTHOR: Carmilla

RATING: PG

SUMMARY: Indications of an alien lifeform bring the Doctor and Rose to Ancient Rome, and a poet creating his masterpiece.

NOTES: Written for the Ninth Doctor ficathon. Probably takes place sometime between _The Long Game_ and _Father's Day_. Thanks to Raven for her excellent beta work, and the use of litgeek!Doctor.

* * *

"Is it meant to be doing that?" Rose screamed over the din, as the lid of a valve rattled loose and a cloud of steam gushed into her face. The Doctor grinned at her. 

"No, not at all! Exciting, huh?" He slammed one hand down onto the lid while the other did something complicated with the sonic screwdriver. He kept the valve secure until the jet of steam and the noise subsided, then grimaced, blowing ruefully on his reddened palm. "I haven't been this far back in a while. The poor thing's a bit out of shape." He patted the TARDIS's glowing control panel affectionately, then winced and blew on his hand again. A jolt and a shudder announced that they had arrived.

"So… where exactly are we? And when?" She never got tired of asking that question; she tired even less of hearing it answered. He took a moment to let her wallow in suspense before he replied.

"Rome, under Emperor Augustus. The start of the age of empire. 9 BC." He smiled, conspiratorially. "Six years before the birth of Christ."

* * *

Rose sat, trying not to fidget, as the Doctor's oddly gentle hands finished securing an elaborate arrangement of curls on the top of her head. When she'd first come out of the costume room, wearing a knee-length tunic and belt she'd thought looked quite fetching, he hadn't said anything, merely taken her by the shoulders and steered her back in again, and proceeded to pick out a full-length stola, wrap it around her over the tunic, and pin it securely at the shoulders with a couple of gold brooches. The overall effect was far less flattering than the tunic alone had been, not to mention much more difficult to move in, and she'd asked him why he insisted on making her uncomfortable.

"So that people don't think you're my concubine," he shot back, "now sit still while I do your hair."

When he'd finished, Rose examined herself in the mirror, gingerly patting her styled hair and feeling the myriad pins that held it in place. The fabric she was wearing was heavy, although not too hot; even so, she felt the whole awkward outfit was a high price to pay for respectability. It occurred to her that she'd never asked why the Doctor himself saw no need to change clothes – perhaps his leather jacket was the sartorial equivalent of psychic paper. He cut her thoughts short by taking her by the wrist and leading her to the door.

"Are you ready for this?" She nodded. "Then… welcome to ancient history."

At first, the view was a little anti-climactic. He'd deposited the TARDIS in a shadowy back alley where it would attract as little attention as possible and, for all the warm Mediterranean air and the slightly odd shape of the buildings, it was an alley that could have been anywhere. Rose said as much, adding:

"Look, there's even graffiti on the walls."

She was right; the stone was covered with words daubed in white paint. The message nearest to them read simply 'lupus malus'. The Doctor looked offended, as he tended to when she wasn't palpably impressed by any of the trappings of time travel.

"It's not just graffiti, you know, it's all sorts of things. Notices, advertising, even campaign slogans for elections. Early billboard posting."

"Wow, thrilling." She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Alright, you wanna be really impressed? C'mere."

He put his hands over her eyes and carefully steered her out of the alley, round another corner, and a few steps forward. The mid-morning sun was so bright she could sense it even through the palms of his hands, dull red underneath her closed lids. And the noise was unbelievable – hundreds of voices carrying on conversations all around; she even thought she could hear animals. The layers of chatter were so dense they could easily have been in a crowded square in London. But she still wasn't prepared for it when he took his hands away, and she opened her eyes to see the forum of Rome, on market day.

There were people everywhere; buying, selling, hurrying from one place to another. Hundreds of stalls lined the square, selling everything from vegetables to swords to embroidered rugs. In one corner, farm animals were being auctioned off, the crowd of bidders crushed close together, waving and gesticulating furiously. Rich men (easily distinguishable by a well-dyed cloak or tunic), passed back and forth, trailing scurrying slaves as a mother duck trails ducklings. The stand nearest to them was selling trinkets that gleamed and glittered brightly in the light. On the steps of the imposing marble building on the far side of the forum, a man in a bright white toga was making a speech to a group of interested onlookers.

Rose turned, and looked up at the Doctor.

"You win. I'm _really_ impressed."

* * *

A short time later, after the psychic paper (as a note of credit) had procured them some denarii at a banking house, Rose had bought herself a ring from the trinket stall she had noticed before, and the Doctor had bought them both some 'little snacks' that turned out to be roast dormice rolled in poppy seeds (he'd eaten his anyway; she hadn't been able to bring herself to do the same), she finally thought to ask him why they were there in the first place.

"Other than the pleasure of introducing you to a new culture?" She pulled a face at him. His own expression sobered a little. "I picked up the life signs of a creature. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm fairly certain that it shouldn't be here." He pulled another of his little gizmos from his pocket. A blue light on its surface flashed steadily on and off. "This ought to get us close to it, at least."

They navigated the endless warren of streets around the city's centre, more than once looking up from the Doctor's device to find that they were nearly back to where they'd started.

"Why don't they name any of the streets?" Rose groused, but got no answer.

Eventually, they arrived at a fairly large villa, maybe half a mile from the forum. The device was flashing so quickly now that the blue light looked almost steady. The Doctor nodded in satisfaction.

"This is the place. Whatever that thing is, it's in there somewhere." With that, he stepped up to the door and rapped on it smartly.

It was opened by a dark-skinned slave girl, wearing a chiton not unlike the tunic Rose had first selected. She looked flustered, but her voice was low and even.

"We don't want any visitors today, thank you. The master is indisposed." Her eyes flicked over to Rose, noting her unusual stance, legs braced, head up, her eyes fixed firmly on her companion rather than looking modestly towards the ground. "Not even the young lady, although I daresay he'll be glad enough to see you when he's feeling better." Rose coloured, but before she could say anything too rude and totally destroy any hope she had of passing as a gentlewoman, she was interrupted by a short, balding man in a toga who came bustling towards the door.

"Oh, thank Jove, you've arrived, and quicker than I could have hoped!" He stopped, and eyed them quizzically. "You are the doctor?"

The Doctor confirmed that he was. Rose was still smirking as he introduced her as his 'assistant'. The man raised an eyebrow a little at this, but didn't pass comment. Instead, he turned to the slave, who was still regarding Rose somewhat dubiously.

"Metella, run along, there's a girl. I'll escort the guests myself." She frowned a little and hurried off as he ushered them into the house. "I hope your journey was not too wearying," he was saying; "I know you live a fair distance from here. Did my boy explain what the trouble was?" Suddenly, he stopped. "Come to that, where _is_ Clemens?"

"Uh… at the market," Rose said quickly, ignoring the slightly startled look the man gave her.

"That's right," the Doctor put in. "Poor boy, he'd run all the way to get us, we thought he could use a little rest and refreshment, so we sent him off to get some."

"Oh." The man blinked. "Well… that was good of you. I trust he'll be back shortly."

"Actually," Rose added, "since he was so tired, and out of breath and everything, he didn't really tell us what exactly you wanted us for."

"Oh," said the man again. By this point, they had reached an open-roofed courtyard in the centre of the house, and he stopped by the side of the pool at his centre, gazing into its depths. His shoulders drooped heavily. "I suppose, in that case, that I'd better explain.

"As you may know, this is the house of Publius Ovidius Naso – his friends call him Ovid." At this, the Doctor drew in his breath, sharply. Rose glanced at him, curious about the sudden grin he'd been unable to restrain, but he shook his head – explanations would come later – and looked back at the old man with increased attention. "I count it an honour to be one of those friends. My name is Arellius Fuscus; formerly I was his teacher. Although Ovid is nominally a judge, his real love is poetry, and his elegiacs have won him some little fame – justly, I believe." The Doctor smiled and inclined his head in agreement. "When, half a year ago, he decided to embark on an epic, we encouraged him. We didn't know what a change it would bring about." Fuscus was growing steadily more agitated.

"Doctor, we hardly know him! He has become obsessed! Never was a man who loved good food and good company more than Ovid – now neither holds any interest for him. He locks himself in his room for hours at a time, working on this poem, but that's not the worst of it. The worst is that, when he's supposedly been writing for days on end, barely stopping for food or rest, I or another friend will visit and find he's written no more than thirty lines. We ask what he's been doing. 'Communing with my muse,' he says. Well," the old man paused for breath, "last week I decided that simply wasn't good enough. I asked him what he'd really been doing. Normally, of course, I should suspect an affair, but Metella's been keeping a careful watch for me and reports no such thing. Never a woman in or out, she says, and that's hardly like him either -" he looked at Rose, and flushed "- excusing your lady's presence, but it's the truth." The Doctor merely smiled.

"So, last week?" he prompted. "Did he tell you anything?"

Fuscus laughed, bitterly. "Oh yes, he told me. He said he'd been telling the truth all along. He has been communing with his muse. Quite literally, he says – he claims she's appeared to him, shown him what to write about. I asked him did he mean a woman, a new mistress. No, he said, she wasn't a woman at all. She could be anything – a bird, a statue, a tree with flowers that changed colour from white to red." He looked up. "This is no mere flight of a poet's imagination, Doctor. He believes in this muse; believes she is a solid creature with form and motion. He's spent hours, watching her, he claims. Watching her flit from one shape to another – and he says that he'll write about every transformation.

"We don't know what to do. His wife has left for his estate in Sulmo; she can't bear to see him so. In all honesty, I'm not sure that I wouldn't do better to sacrifice to Jove, maybe to have one of the priests exorcise the house – perhaps this is all the work of some malignant spirit. But this morning I decided that I should send for you first. Perhaps the poor man is delirious, though we can find no trace of fever."

The Doctor nodded, looking thoughtful. "It's a good job I'm here," he said, "I may have a fair idea of what's happening. You'd better take me to his room."

Fuscus nodded, and ambled off ahead of them, looking relieved to have told the story at last and not to have been laughed at. Rose lowered her voice.

"So who is this guy? Last time I saw you grin like that, we were in a room with Dickens."

"You're on the right lines," the Doctor conceded. "This guy – let's just say that Shakespeare was his biggest fan. And unless I'm mistaken, the book he's writing now… well, without it, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ would never have been the same." He glanced over to see if she looked suitably impressed. "And _Romeo and Juliet _would probably never have been written at all, no matter what Tom Stoppard might say." No – he'd had her up to the last bit, but then he'd lost it. Ah well.

The old man had stopped.

"This is his room; I'll have him let us in."

The Doctor shook his head.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go alone. I might get more out of him that way." He turned around. "Sorry, Rose, that goes for you too. Go and explore the house a bit, if you like. Don't worry," he added when he saw the look on her face, "there's a high probability that nothing dangerous will happen."

Rose sighed, and headed back towards the atrium. As she glanced back over her shoulder, she saw the door of the room swing open to admit the Doctor.

* * *

Rose's wanderings had taken her round most of the rooms in the house, out into the garden, which was scented with the herbs they grew for use in the kitchen, and finally into the kitchen itself. There she found Metella, busy cleaning a bowlful of some kind of pulse. The other girl barely acknowledged her presence, merely moving pointedly around where Rose was sitting on the table to recover a knife before starting to chop some vegetables. At length, it was Rose who broke the silence.

"So, what's your life like here?"

Metella looked up at her sharply.

"I knew it! You're not one of them, are you? Asking a question like that, and pretending to be a noblewoman! I knew the moment I saw you two, you're different – you're foreigners."

"I -" Rose decided she had neither the historical knowledge nor the acting skills to argue the point. "You're right. We're from somewhere a long way away."

The girl nodded, satisfied. "So am I. I don't think I'll ever get back to where I'm from."

"What happened?" The girl shrugged.

"What usually happens. I was a victim of war. My parents and my eldest brother were killed. I ended up in this city, this life. The master… rescued me, I suppose, and for all he keeps me here he treats me quite well." She lowered her head. "But I long for my home, my people. I don't belong in this place."

"How long is it that you've been gone?"

"Not as long as it seems, I admit. Only a matter of months. I've been in service here for around six; they still give me some leeway in my behaviour." She shook her head. "Six months is a long time, nonetheless. Time enough for my youngest brother to have grown bigger than me, as he threatened to." She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily. "Time enough for my son to have forgotten the sound of my voice."

Rose looked at her, taken aback. The girl didn't look any older than she was. Not that it was impossible, or even very unlikely, to be a mother at her age, she reminded herself. And yet, now she came to think of it, there was something about Metella's eyes that suggested that maybe she was older than she looked – but it could just be the sadness in them.

Not knowing what to say, she laid a consoling hand over the girl's own. It was not shaken off.

* * *

He couldn't help it. When he looked at the man, his initial thought was, 'He's much smaller than I expected.' But for all that he was nearly a head shorter than the Doctor, Ovid made a favourable first impression. He had a mass of brown hair that curled close to his scalp, and warm brown eyes that danced when he smiled, and he smiled often.

"Come in, come in!" He gestured the Doctor through the door and into his messy but comfortable-looking study. Papyrus scrolls were stacked everywhere. On the simple wooden desk lay a number of wax tablets, most at least half full with scribbled characters without any discernable breaks, and a metal stylus. Ovid noticed the direction of his guest's glance.

"The habits we learn as schoolboys, we keep all our lives, or so the philosophers tell us." His smile was disarming. "Mine is wax and stylus. I have a scribe to copy the manuscript out in neat when I'm done with it, but I do find it so much more comfortable to write like this." He crossed the room to where a couple of chairs were placed against the wall, and dragged them back with him to the centre. "So – seat? – what's dear old Fuscus been telling you, eh? Not frightened you, I hope, with his ghost stories or whatever it is he's come up with? He really is a dear old boy, but he does have a habit of taking things _seriously_."

The Doctor was charmed, but he wasn't fooled.

"He does take things seriously, and in this particular instance I take something seriously as well. I take _you_ seriously. I believe what you told him."

Ovid's laugh was a delicate rill, but it died on his lips.

"My gods, you _do_, don't you?" He leaned forward, looking at his guest more keenly. "Who are you? You're not Gaius Iucundus, or anyone else he might have sent for." His eyes narrowed. "You're not even a citizen, judging by that outlandish garb you're wearing."

Impressed in spite of himself, the Doctor murmured quietly, "So you've noticed that, have you? Ah well, the lunatic, the lover, and the poet…."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." His voice hardened. "It doesn't matter who I am. Just think of me as the Doctor. What matters is who _she_ is, or maybe _what_ she is. And most importantly, _where_ she is. Where are you keeping her prisoner? It can't be in here." But nonetheless, he glanced suspiciously at the chairs, the desk, even the wax and stylus.

Ovid was staring at him.

"You do believe me. You honestly do."

"I more than believe you, I _know_. Now _where is she_?"

The poet was slowly backing his chair away from this man who suddenly seemed far more formidable than he had five minutes ago.

"You have to understand, it isn't what you think. I – I didn't hurt her, I _found_ her. As I was walking, up in the hills, I found her there, lying in a shallow pit. There was smoke rising all around her. Her – or it, I thought. The most beautiful statue I'd ever seen; a female nude in unpainted marble. Exquisite. I slipped an arm underneath her, to try and set her upright again, and then -" his eyes were looking at something very far away, something more powerful than anything in the confines of the room "and then, as I touched her, she warmed under my hand. The marble softened into skin, the wind began to stir through her hair until it all turned to strands of gold. Even with my hand on her back, I could feel the pulse of her heart… A miracle. The gods had smiled on me. Here she was, tall, slender, fair; a muse made flesh. My muse.

"I took her back to my home, hid her away. She learned our language quicker than I could ever have anticipated. She was extraordinary. And then – she showed me what else she could do. She can take any form, anything at all. She melts from one to the other and it's as if she's dancing. And no matter what her shape, she still speaks in that beautiful voice.

"I started to write. I couldn't help it. The only thing I could bear to look away from her for is to write down what she does." He shook his head. "My friends worry, but if they could see what I've seen…." He shook himself. "But they haven't, and now their worry has brought you to me." Again, he subjected his guest to a keen scrutiny, but when he spoke his voice was tentative. "She spoke, from time to time, of her people. Of them coming to take her home. Are you one of them? Can you take her home?"

And when he heard the note of hope in that last question, and the look in those soft brown eyes, the Doctor forgot to be angry.

"I'm not one of her people," he said gently. "But I believe I can take her home."

Ovid nodded. "That's good. I've tried, but – she hasn't been happy here." It sounded like a difficult admission to make. He bowed his head. "She has been my inspiration. More than any woman could be. Do you think – I can finish it without her?"

The Doctor grinned, and covered the poet's hand with his own.

"Better than think. I _know_. You can."

Ovid smiled at him. "You're very easy to believe. That's a good quality in a man."

"I'd better speak to her now. Where is she? _Have_ you hidden her somewhere in this room? I know she's in the house."

Ovid's smile metamorphosed, becoming something sly, amused and impish.

"She is in the house. You met her on your way in. She's Metella."

* * *

The four of them stood in the alley where they'd first materialised: Rose, the Doctor, Ovid and Metella. She had transformed herself as soon as they'd left the villa, becoming taller, paler, her hair changing from dark brown to gold; the Doctor recognised from his description the woman Ovid had first discovered. She had gasped and covered her mouth with her hand when she first saw the TARDIS, as if its appearance stirred some memory in her, but had made no comment. Ovid, on the other hand, had been somewhat taken aback by it, and talked a great deal until he was reasonably satisfied as to what it was and what it did. The two of them stood close together now, silhouetted against the sunlight at the mouth of the alley, while the Doctor and Rose stood a little way off, giving them time and space to make their goodbyes.

Ovid embraced his muse once, fiercely, then pulled back to regard her at arm's length. He thought he saw compassion mixed with the happiness and relief in her eyes.

"Wherever you travel, travel safe," he said at last.

"_Ave atque vale_ is the phrase, I believe?" she responded. After a minute she added, "And thank you."

He smiled and waved his hand dismissively, and she turned towards where the others stood.

"Wait! Just, one thing."

She looked at him quizzically.

"What's your real name? You never told me."

"My name? It's an old family name; my great-grandmother's. I am Thetis." And with that, because she knew it would make him smile, she became a great seagull and swooped back and forth along the length of the alley, allowing him to chase her, before finally alighting on Rose's shoulder.

"Ouch! Hey, mind the claws!" she protested, but she was giggling as she carried the bird through the door of the TARDIS.

The two men stood alone in the alley. The Doctor squeezed Ovid's shoulder. "Don't worry," he said gently. "I'll take her safely back to her people, what's left of them." He only got a brief nod in response. "What about you, what will you do?"

Ovid smiled, some of his good spirits returning.

"Well, keep writing, of course. I have an epic to finish, after all. Probably go back to the old social round, see how it's fared without me. See which of my friends have stuck by me, and which have prepared knives for my absent back. Wine all around for the faithful!"

The Doctor smiled. "And for the unfaithful?"

"Well, as the poet would have it, _irrumabo et pedicabo_ -"

"No, no, not that one, shush!"

The impish grin made a sudden and breathtaking reappearance.

"Why?"

"Well for one thing, my companion may be back at any second, and she _will_ understand you, and for another -" He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well, I know some people who might view _that_ as a promise and not a threat."

The grin widened.

"So do I." Pause. "Will you come and check up in a little while? See how the epic's going?"

The Doctor answered the grin with a wolfish one of his own.

"I may well do."

END

* * *

ADDITIONAL NOTES: This is for Fraz, who requested: Ancient Rome, some humour, and some slashy UST with anyone. It's as historically accurate as limited time and internet access allowed, but if you spot any glaring anachronisms do feel free to point them out. 

Ovid was either the last of the Golden Age poets of Rome or the first of the Silver Age. He lived from 43 BC-AD 18. He wrote many poems, mostly in elegiacs, but his masterwork was the _Metamorphoses_, thirteen volumes of poetry which cleverly link together in one narrative almost every conceivable myth which concerns a change of shape. Shakespere definitely read the _Metamorphoses_, either in the original or in translation, and there are references to it scattered throughout his work. However, possibly the most obvious influence is the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, which was the basis for _Romeo and Juliet_ and also appears in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. Tom Stoppard wrote _Shakespere in Love_.

Arellius Fuscus was one of Ovid's teachers while the young man was training for a profession in law. At the time, Fuscus was considered one of the four best rhetoricians in Rome. I have no idea whether he and Ovid actually remained friends once Ovid was no longer his student.

The two Latin quotations in the last paragraph are from Catullus, an earlier poet who was probably an influence on Ovid. Originally he was going to be the poet Rose and the Doctor met, until I realised how much better the muse idea fit in with Ovid and the _Metamorphoses_.


End file.
